


The Interrogation

by AwesomeSauce010



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Crack, Dark Humor, Gen, I think the author has issues, Kind of fucked up, Narcissism, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, The main character is a narcissistic psychopath, just warning you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwesomeSauce010/pseuds/AwesomeSauce010
Summary: Brian Cabrera is tired of people letting their jealousy cloud their judgement. Still, it's inevitable. Might as well have fun with it.
Kudos: 2





	The Interrogation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot currently. I might expand on it someday. Also, I know I keep writing really fucked up characters. I honestly don't know what my problem is.

He was being pushed forwards, almost tripping over his own feat. With concentration, he managed to remain upright. He faintly heard a voice behind him, telling him to hurry up. That was the only thing he got out of the insistent raving going on behind him. He imagined it wasn't actually a person behind him. Perhaps the police station within this F.U.C. (his abbreviation for "fucked-up city") was into hiring squawking, pig-inclined humanoids. Yeah, that was probably it. He shouldn't even be surprised. 

He heard a loud clicking sound, and was very rudely pushed inside a door, landing on his ass. The door violently slammed behind him, the pig esque muttering of the humanoid becoming fainter as (she?) left the doorway. Deciding to pay mind to his surroundings, he looked up from his comfortable spot on the floor. Turning his body facing opposite the doorway, he put his hand underneath his head and slid with swagger. He must of looked so cool at that moment, showing off how awesome he was. 

He took his right hand, lifting his thumbnail to his mouth to bite on it as he observed. It was clever, because he had seen many other people doing it. He could pretend to stoop into the depths of their lameness. Once the interrogators see him biting his nails like all the other pussies, they will think he is not better than them. Then, they will not lock him away due to their irrational jealousy of him - it was, after all, the only explanation for someone wanting him in prison. 

Realizing his position showed quite the contradiction to his lame nail-biting, he stood up. 

He looked around the room, and couldn't help but sigh. The police had no taste. He wanted to cry, to scream. He couldn't, he knew that. His tear buds had a malfunction - a good thing, of course. The walls were a dingy gray, molding up within the second. The floor was no better, hard, gray, and covered in a thin layer of dust. The only things that stood out was a table in the centre, plain and wooden. Along with a small, black camera, a red light on the side. The dim lighting made the room all the more depressing, and he felt the saddening vibe physically, as well as emotionally. 

What complete and utter torture. 

The only redeeming quality was the camera, which was on. Clearly, they had already bear witness to his amazing persona. No point in the nail-biting then. He abruptly stopped and sat in the single chair lined against the left side of the table, looking at the other two chairs longingly. He felt so alone. This moment was, by far, the loneliest, most heartbreaking moment in not just his existence, but the world's existence. 

He should know, he's had many past lives. 

With that thought, he kicked his feet up on the table and leaned back. With the newfound comfort, the moment ended. He had found solace again. 

He heard the door opening squeakily. What he saw would've had him gaping in shock if not for the necessity of keeping up his signature expression - devoid of all emotion, brows furrowed. Intimidating and cool, like he saw on that poster of someone called "Ted Bundy". What a cool guy. What couldn't everyone be like him? Oh, right. Pussies.

Two figures sat in the chairs before him. One piece of lard was staring at him. His greasy beard hung off of his oily face, and he wore a hat to cover up the monstrosity that was likely to be his hair. He wore thick, winter clothes. Despite it being summer. Sure, it was cold, but not that cold. This dude was obviously so ashamed of himself that he needed to cover up every square inch of his lard-like, stinky body. Sitting on the other side of him, a mere table between them, he's surprised he doesn't catch a hint of the smell that would surely send him retching. 

To The Lard's side sat an actual decent-looking person. A surprise in this F.U.C. in particular. His hair was swooped back, his expression was close enough to Ted Bundy's in the poster. He was wearing less clothes, less ashamed of himself than his companion. Servant, actually. There's no way he would associate with The Lard. Then again, his personality might ruin his pristine image entirely. 

"Mr... Cabrera, am I right?" Asked The Lard, and he turned to him blankly. He was right, that was his name. Yet... he had to fuck with him a little bit. Traditions like that are sacred. 

"No," he said carelessly. "My name is Spongebob Squarepants. I thought it was obvious?" He was mocking him, and saw The Lard's face redden with anger. Interesting. 

The other police officer, who had managed to wear his Ted Bundy expression this entire time, looked at him unchangeably. "Listen, Brian," he read off the file. "My name is Detective Jim Gordon - " Oh, so he was going to throw his title in there to ensure his faux superiority. " - and last week, it was reported that an unknown arsonist destroyed the home of Noah and Sabrina Cabrera, along with her unborn baby. Your sibling. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" 

Brian feigned innocence. Of course, he knew all about it. He was the one who did it, after all. By accident, make no mistake. He loved his family. He just loved the memory of them more than the thought of them alive. See? Love. 

"No. I have no idea who those people are." He continued in his blank tone. He paused, letting the silence carry on for a few seconds as The Lard and the Gordon stared at him intensely. 

He leaned forward, looking at them with fake sincerity, and whispered the cherished sentence like a secret: 

"I am Spongebob Squarepants." 

"That's it!" The Lard roared, looking like he was about to lunge at him. Brian wouldn't blame him, to be honest. He was pretty much the most attractive human being to ever exist. Thank God for Gordon though. He wasn't in the mood to be assaulted, especially by The Lard. 

"Harvey!" Gordon yelled. "Not now! He'll get sent to Arkham anyways, attacking him is pointless." 

Amusement growing slowly, Brian mouthed, "I'll call you later." He winked at The Lard, taking one hand and setting it up straight and flat, the other shaping his finger triangular, jabbing it into the flat hand. The Lard looked like he was about to vomit. Damn, could this day get any better? 

"You - " Lard started, but Gordon cut him off. 

"Brian Cabrera, you are under arrest for the murders of Noah and Sabrina Cabrera, as well as an unborn child. Along with destruction of private property. You have the right to remain silent - " Gordon had gotten the cuffs on him already, and he felt his like for the man decrease a little. Seriously, couldn't he not make his jealousy so blatantly obvious?

" - anything you say can and will be used against you. Other shit I don't care about. What-the-fuck-ever. I know the Miranda Rights, Gordon. But I didn't do anything. The Lard is the one who tried to attack me." 

"The Lard?" It bellowed. "Why, I am gonna beat - " 

"Nah," Brian interrupted smoothly. "You're not." 

"Shut up!" Gordon yelled. "Put him in the holding cell. We don't have a confession or evidence yet. We'll look at the crime scene tomorrow, and his trial will be sometime this week, I'm hoping." He turned towards Brian, looking at him coldly. "You're going to Arkham." 

Brian shrugged. "Okay." He said. "But, before I go, can I have an Iced Mocha?" 

"No, you can not!" The Lard yelled again. 

With that, they took him to the holding cell. He was right. This F.U.C. wasn't any different than the other F.U.C.s he'd been to. He would just have to change that. 


End file.
